


All your outsides to your ins

by Qpenguin98



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Denial of Feelings, Depression, Episodes 159-160, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Self-Worth Issues, The Lonely - Freeform, like a lot of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:47:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21916249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Qpenguin98/pseuds/Qpenguin98
Summary: They’re safe, for now. It’s safe here among the cold damp of the Scottish Highlands. He can get used to it, eventually, and maybe even the anger will diminish with time. Become just another muted sensation in the sea of mush he calls emotions. What’s one more feeling added to the pot?
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 21
Kudos: 196





	All your outsides to your ins

The cottage is nice. It’s quiet. Sometimes it’s too quiet, but it’s more than just Martin here so that’s never for long. Jon doesn’t take up the most space in a home but there are times when he demands attention and it’s near impossible not to give it to him. It keeps Martin busy, keeps him from drifting for too long in his own brain. It’s been a year of drifting, of feeling disconnected from himself and the world. 

He finds it’s easier to keep himself busy with fussing or cooking or doing _anything_ to try and keep the empty away, but Jon doesn’t seem to get that. He wants to fuss right back, to try and take the burden away from him but it isn’t right. That’s not how it’s meant to go. Martin knows he doing it as some kind of retribution, making up for all the years of being looked after and the nasty quips he gave in return, but Martin doesn’t want him to look after him. He doesn’t need looking after. He’s an adult and he made decisions and most of them were good up until they weren’t.

There’s an anger that Jon would even consider what feels like _coddling_ him after everything they’ve been through, a spike in his chest every time Jon tries to take a task from him. He clings to that feeling, lets it wash over him but does his best not to show it. It’s the only thing that doesn’t feel muted, that isn’t so far away from his psyche that it could be considered fake. It’s real and tangible and as long as he doesn’t let Jon see the annoyance that flashes through him at every dirty dish pulled from his hands or meal prepared without his direct influence or cup of tea placed in front of him, things will be fine. 

They’re safe, for now. It’s safe here among the cold damp of the Scottish Highlands. The people are nice, for all that Martin sees them. Interacting with others is harder than he thought it would be after months of isolating himself, but he does his best to be pleasant. He does his best to be pleasant for Jon too, but that’s getting harder. It doesn’t matter, he’ll figure it out, but his self control is wearing thin.

He can get used to it, eventually, and maybe even the anger will diminish with time. Become just another muted sensation in the sea of mush he calls emotions. What’s one more feeling added to the pot?

\---

His mother is dead. His mother is dead and he should feel something about it, but he doesn’t. He’s not sure that he can. Not really sure if it’s proximity to the Lonely or just his own brain. Either one would make sense,

Martin hopes it’s the Lonely. His mother was difficult, but he loved her. He thinks. No, he definitely loved his mother, regardless of if she loved him back. He should be feeling something, anything, at her passing. She’s dead. His mum’s dead and she isn’t coming back.

There’s nothing. It’s all dulled down. He thinks he feels something sometimes, a pressing of panic against his ribcage, but if he thinks on it too long it goes away. Not a real emotion, just an imagined one, a wanting one.

The funeral was a small affair, not much family coming down to see her off, and it was almost vindicating. She’d driven everyone away and he was left alone with the burden of her.

Not a burden, he chides himself. She wasn’t a burden.

“You’re looking glum,” Peter says, static popping in Martin’s ears where there wasn’t any before. He’s in the office, and he was alone, but it seems Peter wants to talk.

“What do you want,” he says flatly. It’s not a question. He doesn’t really want to know.

“To pass on my condolences, of course,” Peter says. Martin swivels the chair around to face him. He has his hands in his coat pockets, stance leaned back. “I heard about your mother. Unfortunate thing, really.”

“My mother or her death?” 

“Her death,” Peter says. He pauses, giving Martin a searching look. “Or the other, if it pleases you. The passing of a loved one can be a Lonely thing, Martin.”

“Thank you,” he says instead of dwelling on the second half of that statement. 

Peter claps a hand on his shoulder and Martin bristles. A chill seeps through his sweater into his skin and crawls up his throat. He shivers. The hand doesn’t move and Martin stares at him with a blank expression.

“Finding support in other people can be helpful at a time like this. Take whatever time you need,” Peter says, smiling. It feels wrong. This isn’t how this is meant to go. Peter’s meant to tell him that work is the best distraction, that others could never hope to understand what he’s feeling so he shouldn’t even bother trying to find support. That his mother never cared for him so he shouldn’t feel the need to try and feel something for her death.

“No,” Martin says carefully. “I think I’m all right here. I don’t need anymore time.”

“If you’re certain,” Peter says, and his voice sounds genuine. Martin’s head is spinning, trying to make sense of what feels like _actual support_ coming from his boss, avatar of the Lonely, who’s only ever tried to push him away from other people. There’s a flash of annoyance that Peter, who he thought he had figured out, is still complicating things, still making him guess at what normal will be. It’s stronger than he expects, the feeling of irritation bowling over him, shocking. It’s the first strong thing he’s felt in weeks.

“I’m sure.” Martin says eventually. Peter squeezes his shoulder and lets go, looking pleased.

“I’ll let you get back to it then,” he says. “Let me know if you find anything interesting.”

The static fizzles out and Peter is gone in a haze of fog that disappears just as quickly as it came. Martin stares at the place he was, feeling the cold from his hand dissipate. 

That was… unexpected. Martin isn't sure what he's meant to do with this. Isn't sure whether Peter was showing genuine concern or if he's just been played. Maybe it's some terrible mix of the two, making sure his wellbeing is looked after so he'll be fit to do whatever Peter wants. That showing the concern will drive Martin further into himself and away from others.

This game he's in is tiring. He knows he's a pawn on a much bigger board than he anticipated, but it's hard to bring himself to care. He's a good choice for the Lonely and he knows that. Peter and Elias do too. 

He needs to keep enough of himself present if he's going to succeed at any of his plans.

Maybe he'll go visit Jon.

\---

Jon is curled up against him in his sleep, and Martin should also be sleeping, but he's awake. He is so, so awake. His whole body is tired and his head feels stuffed with cotton, but he can't make himself fall asleep. 

This feels wrong on a fundamental level, and he doesn’t know what to do about it.

There are cricket sounds from outside, the rustle of grass and leaves, Jon’s breathing, the creak of the bed when one of them shifts, and Martin’s heartbeat is starting to drown them all out. He closes his eyes, scrunches his face up, and wills it to go away. He can feel his pulse in his temples, hear it slamming in his eardrums. 

Things weren’t ever meant to be like this. This all feels like some terribly wonderful fever dream where it’s just him and Jon far away from everything they’ve been fighting for the last two years. Where nothing can hurt them except for the perfectly normal human things that can hurt anyone, and it’s safe.

 _This is wrong_ , he thinks to himself. His heartbeat pounds in his head. _This is wrong it’s fake it’s so, so wrong._

Jon makes a sleepy noise that cuts through his pulse and Martin takes in a shaky breath. His arms tighten around Jon, who tenses. Martin opens his eyes to find him screwing his face up, blinking his eyes open slowly.

“Martin?” He shifts, twisting to get a better look at him.

“Go back to sleep,” Martin tries to say in a normal tone, but his voice shakes. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, wiping at his eyes with his hand to clear them out. “Are you okay?”

“Just can’t sleep,” he says, smiling. It’s difficult, but it’s there. He hopes it’s reassuring. He doesn’t think he can handle Jon trying to take care of him right now. He might just lose what little grip he has on himself if that happens. 

Jon looks at him, his scrutinizing gaze taking in everything about him, and Martin wonders what would happen if he lost it right now. If the cap fell off and he let out everything he’s been feeling for the past year, two years, thirty years of his life. If, even for just a moment, he didn’t reel the twisting mass of hurt and fear and anger and the feeling of _nothing_ that penetrates everything he does in. How would Jon react? How would _Martin_?

He realizes with dull awareness that he just doesn’t have the energy to do that.

Jon deems his statement good enough for the moment and mumbles out a very sleepy, “Okay,” before pressing his face back into Martin’s shoulder. Martin keeps his breathing level and relaxed until he knows Jon’s back asleep and he lets it out in a shaky exhale.

He rolls them, careful and slow so that Jon doesn’t wake up, to a position where Martin can rest his face on top of Jon’s head, and lets his shaking hands hold him closer.

Martin vacillates between drowning in the pressure of feeling in his chest and laying numbly with his eyes open, knowing that the swell of emotion he’d just felt wasn’t quite real. Jon doesn’t wake again and he’s grateful for it. The thought of explaining how his brain is currently working sends his breath shaky again before he realizes it’s an imagined reaction and cuts it out. There are too many layers to pull back. Even Martin doesn’t know what sits at the bottom and it’s his own head.

If he ever uncovers it, he knows it won’t be pretty. He can only hope he’s alone when it happens, so no one else gets dragged into his inevitable emotional fallout.

His sleep is restless, and he wakes the next morning with such a sense of dread that he has trouble getting out of bed.

\---

Martin stares at the stove. The frying pan taunts him. It’s empty, no food in it, and he doesn’t intend to keep it that way, but things are turning that direction. There’s a spot of food left near the top of the pan, nowhere near where food would touch if he made himself something small, but it’s dirty. The sink is just behind him, he could easily wash it off, but that requires the effort of picking it up and turning around and heating up the water and pouring the soap on the dishrag and scrubbing until the spot comes off, and _then_ finally getting out food to prepare and stand and watch cook for at least another twenty minutes. 

It’s just so much work. 

He turns away from the stovetop and grabs a box of stale cereal and the carton of milk that smells about a day away from turning and pours himself a bowl. His mouth chews and his throat swallows and it tastes of old granola and the strange cold taste of milk and it does nothing for him but fill him up. His dull hunger dissipates and he almost wishes he’d washed the dish and cooked something because now he’d have something to do. As it is he rinses his bowl out and lets it rest in the sink. Better to do them when there’s more.

His couch is inviting and he sits on it, staring at his phone before placing it facedown next to him. He should do something. He should make something. Write, listen to music, anything.

He sits.

His days are monotonous like that. He gets up, showers, dresses, goes to work, doesn’t speak to anyone, gets in a petty spat with Peter over something that shouldn’t have even angered him but does, avoids everyone else, goes home, eats something either entirely too time consuming and mind numbing or something that takes next to no effort or sometimes nothing at all if he can’t manage to make himself make something, and then sits. Rinse, repeat.

This carries over into the weekends if he can drag himself out of bed, but weekends are there for him to pretend he still knows how to be a person. Wash the laundry, take out the trash, tidy up what needs to be tidied. He tries his best not to let himself live in chaos, but even on the weekends there are times he can’t muster the wherewithal to get out if bed. It’s soft and comfortable and some days he just lays and does nothing. He sets his alarms for weekdays so he’s certain not to sleep them away, but some weekends are lost in a haze of blankets and pillows and unwashed sheets. He could get up, but it’s not worth arguing with himself for as long as he does over it.

There’s something wrong with him, obviously. He knows this. He knows the Lonely’s got its hooks in him, dragging him further and further into its hold, but it’s not the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. The world is exhausting and it’s almost nice to let himself get lost in the monotony of it all.

If he thinks about it too long, the idea sours, but if he lets himself drift, lets the days blend together, lets his emotions get stripped one by one from his psyche until he’s left with a silk screen filter to strain them all through, how bad could it really be?

\---

Scotland is a beautiful place, rolling green hills and misty skylines with the occasional grove of trees and jumble of rocks dotting the land. He’d never been before everything broke bad, but it’s nice to be somewhere so beautiful, so different from the busy city he’s lived his whole life in.

Martin’s currently walking, alone, stewing in his thoughts, but the beauty still breaks through all of that, and that makes him more upset. He doesn’t deserve this place, especially not now as angry as he is. He needs to be removed, boxed off so he doesn’t taint it. Doesn’t ruin it like he’s ruined everything else.

Jon hadn’t even been doing anything out of the ordinary. He was _nice_ , things are meant to be _nice_ here, but Martin can’t stand nice. Jon isn’t supposed to be nice.

“Here,” he’d said, placing a cup of tea on the table next to Martin, who’d smiled thinly in thanks. Then he’d grabbed the book he was reading, some shabby looking tourist novel they’d picked up on their way to the safe house, and had rested his body next to Martin’s.

Martin had waited a while, sipped his tea, been bitter about his tea, and then reached out an arm to rest around Jon’s shoulders. He’d relaxed ever so slightly and Martin had felt marginally better. He was helping, he was doing something for him, not receiving help.

His hand had rubbed up through the back of Jon’s head, curling lazy fingers in the hair there, and Jon’d rested against him, sinking into the couch and letting out a contented breath. It was nice. Martin preferred helping, preferred making someone feel good to having someone dote on him. It was just a preference. That was all. That was _all._

The time had come for lunch, and Martin had planned out something for them, sandwiches, a salad maybe, something to use up the vegetable they’d picked up in the first few days, but Jon had felt him getting ready and snapped his book closed.

“I can get started on lunch,” Jon said, standing, grabbing Martin’s hand and squeezing for his benefit. Always for Martin’s benefit, never for his own. “Sandwiches, right?”

He’d gone to the kitchen, and Martin was left on the couch sat very still, trying to come up with a way to take lunch back. Jon would have protested every attempt, every ask to take the task from him, to prove something to fix things, to take care of him, to make sure he was _alright_. His chest felt tight and his hands shook with how hard he had them fisted and his body filled with anger so strong he was almost sure Jon could hear his blood.

“I’m going to go for a quick walk,” Martin said eventually, standing, grabbing his coat. “I’m feeling a little cooped up. I’ll be back for lunch, don’t worry.”

“Alright,” Jon said, bread bag in hand. “I’ll have this finished up in about fifteen minutes?”

“Perfect,” Martin had said, and he’d left.

It has been much longer than fifteen minutes, but there’s no cell service at the house and Martin didn’t take his phone with him regardless. He should go back. Jon will worry, and then he’ll fuss, and the whole reason Martin was upset in the first place will be back and stronger than ever.

But it’s so nice, just being alone.

The fog in the distance should scare him, and it does. His breath gets a little panicky at times, but he thinks of how his emotions aren’t real, how it’s a wanting reaction, how he wants his emotions to come back and they just won’t, and that panicky feeling goes away. The fog could be around him and he’d be able to convince himself he was fine, because he is. And he will be.

He should go back. Jon will start looking for him if he’s not back before long.

He sits under a tree and closes his eyes.

Scotland is cooler than London, or it’s just later in autumn than it was when they left. He draws his knees up and rests his arms on top of them and his head on top of that. The wind is chilly, but curled up like this it’s comfortable.

He’s well and truly alone for the first time since the Lonely, and even then, he wasn’t alone. Peter was in there with him even if he didn’t speak to him. But his feeling of aloneness, it’s nice. Tamping down and quieting the dread and fear and panic in his throat is easy to do. His emotions aren’t real. Nothing about this is real.

“Martin!”

Martin sighs, opening his eyes and raising his head. Jon’s walking up to him, and he look entirely too fretful. Something aches in his chest. This is something he can fix. He can direct it back, apologize, make Jon feel better and reassured and it won’t fix things, but it’ll fill something inside him.

“Jon?” he asks, faux confused. Jon hurries the rest of the way up to him before he stops, hands coming together, body reading unsure. Martin stands and takes his hands in his and Jon relaxes minutely.

“It’s,” he starts, and then his face twists, mouth opening and closing before he slumps. “It’s been quite a bit longer than fifteen minutes.”

“Has it,” Martin says, and he can’t keep the flatness out of his tone. He’s quick to amend, before he can watch Jon’s face fall. “Oh god, I’m sorry. I lost track of time, and I didn’t have my phone and I really thought I was keeping with the time but I guess not. I’m sorry Jon, I—”

“No,” Jon says quietly. “I shouldn’t have assumed— you’re fine. Of course you’re fine. I… lunch. Lunch is done.”

He’d assumed something had gone wrong, that maybe Martin had slipped back into the Lonely just from being out of his sight. It twists that knife od Jon’s doubt in him ever so slightly deeper, and Martin almost feels vindicated.

“Thank you,” Martin says instead of any of that. “For worrying about me. But I’m fine.”

“Of course.” His hands turn in Martin’s to squeeze, eyes searching his face. “Of course.”

“Come on,” Martin says, taking Jon’s hand more firmly in his. “Let’s go back to the house.”

Lunch tastes like ash on his tongue, but he smiles the whole way through it.

\---

When Martin was ten, his mother sick, father gone, he would go to the park by himself. His mother allowed him to go practically wherever he wanted so long as it was within a certain radius of their house, and the park was very close by.

There was a day one weekend where the weather was misty and overcast and his mother was in bed asleep from exhaustion that he went without telling her. It felt risky, like an unspoken rule had been broken, even if she’d never said that he had to tell her every time he left. But he wanted out of the house, feeling cooped up and upset for a reason he didn’t understand, so he left, locking the door behind him with his house key he’d been given the same week his dad had left.

Hardly anyone was out, the very real threat of rain scaring all of the other kids inside, but the mist felt funny on his face and he was excited to not have to fight over the swings and he wanted out of the house so desperately.

The swing held him as he kicked up and down, mist shrouding the streets from his view, soft fizz of the water covering up the normal sounds of the city. It was going to rain soon, he knew that, but it wasn’t raining yet so he was going to stay put on his swing.

His house feels stuffy, he decided. Mum’s always snappish with him and he hasn’t seen dad in two years now and the outside is just so much different. Home feels lonely, and school feels lonely, but he’s never actually alone. He want to be alone so badly, and actually getting to be, here on the swings with no people he can see, it feels right.

Martin hurts, but right now he doesn’t. It’s all muted, fizzy like the mist, and it’s almost nice. Any other day there would be kids here, and he’d be lonely but not alone all over again, but for now he gets to be the one person in charge of his life. Mum won’t wake up for another few hours, once the rain starts there’s sure to be no one here until it stops, and Martin can sit here, feeling fizzy and alone and covering up the hurt with swinging his legs up and down for that whole time.

The Lonely feels a bit like that, fizzy and fulfilling. He’s disoriented at first, thrown into it mid sentence with no preamble, and once he gets past the two minutes of screaming his brain quiets down.

He walks for a while, trying to see if he can make his way out, and he feels the first real stab of fear since before the Unknowing. Then it goes away, twisting up and out of him. It feels far away, muted, veiled from his body. There’s the sound of gentle waves rolling in the distance, fading into white noise much quicker than the one time he’d been to the ocean as a child. Damp sand crunches under his feet as he walks along, trying to find a way out of the fog surrounding him.

His feet stop without him telling them to, but he finds he doesn’t mind. It’s all the same here, the same twisting fog and crunching sand and far off ocean. It’s cold, but the chill’s already deep in his body, so it’s not as cold as it could be. He stares at his hands, muted, blending with the sand, and thinks that this is right. This feels right.

There’s no one around. He’s not getting out. He’s alone, and he’s lonely, so Lonely, but he always was.

\---

“I’ve done something to upset you,” Jon says from his spot on the other end of the couch. Martin pauses in his crochet, looks up from his half finished stitch. The weather is getting colder and Jon always looks too cold, so he’s making a scarf. It’s easy to get lost in, the loop one, under, pull one, loop again, pull through. Jon is sitting casually on the edge of his seat, looking at Martin like he’s something needing fixed.

“What?” he asks, pulling the yarn through and then too far up to keep it from unravelling. “I’m not upset with you?”

Jon snorts. “You don’t have to lie. I’d much rather you tell me so we can work through it instead of this dancing around you’ve been doing. What have I done?”

“You’ve not done anything,” which isn’t exactly a lie, but Jon looks unimpressed. “I’m just working through the Lonely, Jon. I know I haven’t been the best with things, but I am trying.”

“I know. But I also know that’s not it. It’s something specific. You’re guarded. You won’t ever let me help.”

“I let you help plenty,” Martin snaps, and he can feel that twist of annoyance heating up. “Too much, probably.”

Jon looks at him, brows furrowed. “Is it that? The helping? Do you not like it when I help with things?”

Martin sighs, setting the half done scarf on the table. He won’t be getting back to that anytime soon. “You haven’t done anything wrong, Jon. I promise.”

“Open communication is usually best in these situations. If I remember right, none of us were open about anything and that’s the reason we’re here.”

“That’s not the reason and you goddamn well know it,” Martin snaps out, unable to stop himself. Jon’s eyes widen and Martin clams up, forcing himself to stop talking.

“What do you mean?” Jon asks, turning his whole body to face him.

“Nothing. Jon can we— not now. Can we not have this conversation now?”

“I don’t see when else we would have it.”

“Later. Tomorrow. Never. I would love to never have this conversation.”

“That’s not how things work,” Jon says frustrated. “We have to tell each other how we’re feeling or it’ll never work.”

“Maybe for you, but I’m perfectly fine never speaking of this again.”

“Are you fine, Martin?” His voice is sharp, frustrated, so incredibly present, and Martin almost feels good for it. “I can’t seem to tell. You haven’t told me honestly how you’re doing after everything so tell me, Martin, how are you feeling?”

“I feel wrong,” he feels his mouth say, and then his anger rises up to clamp his mouth shut against the Compulsion. There’s some of the Lonely behind it, the need to keep things to himself overriding his need to answer Jon.

Speaking of Jon, he looks like he just got slapped. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly, hands raising to try and smooth things over. “I didn’t mean to—”

“’ _Tell me, Martin, how are you feeling_?’” Martin says in a bad impression of his voice. Jon winces and Martin grimaces. “Of course you didn’t mean to, but christ, what did you think was going to happen? You’re upset! You’re upset and you can’t control it and that’s fine! It’s perfectly fine! I don’t care. I can’t care, Jon. Not about that.”

“Then… what?”

“Are you still trying?” he laughs out, head spinning. “You’re seriously going to keep trying to get me to bare my soul after that?”

“You said that you felt wrong,” Jon says, and his voice is very tentative. “I’d… like to know what that means.”

Martin lets out a little laugh, and then another, and another until they turn into one big laugh. “Exactly what it says on the tin. I feel wrong. You won’t make me say more.”

“Alright,” Jon says, standing. Martin looks up at him with a smile on his face, and Jon’s lips turn down. “That’s enough of that, I think. What in god’s name is wrong with you, Martin?”

“I don’t know!” It’s nice to say, even if it isn’t all the way true. “I think it’s the Lonely, but I’m out of that so it can’t be that. I think I’m just like this now, which is fun for you.”

“Like what?” Jon asks, and his voice is so excruciatingly patient and Martin hates it.

“Don’t do that,” he says, and Jon’s face twists in confusion. “That— that coddling you do. Where you treat me all nice and try to take care of me. Stop trying to do that.”

“…What?” Jon looks genuinely confused. “Why would I, what? Martin you do the exact same thing back at me.”

“That’s because it’s right. It’s not right when you do it. That’s not how things are supposed to be.”

“I’m confused. Can you tell me how they’re supposed to be?” Martin stares at Jon until he sighs, placing his hands on his hips. “I’m not trying to force you, I genuinely do not know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m mean to take care of you, and that’s it. You’re not meant to do it back at me. You keep trying to take that from me, to take away my part of things, and it makes me so unbelievably frustrated. ‘Oh, I’ll make dinner, oh Martin, here’s some tea the way you like, oh, let me hold you close, don’t worry I’m here, oh I love you and you love me but I’m going to take the only worthy thing you bring to this from you, don’t you worry.’ What am I supposed to do with that, Jon!”

Jon’s staring at him, mouth open, brows up to his hairline, and his hands twitch minutely. Martin feels angry and it feels right in a way things never do. He doesn’t want to let it go, but Jon looks so shocked that it’s loosening its grip, floating off just like everything else. His chest numbs and the growing rage dissipates.

“Fuck,” he says quietly. “I’ve gone and messed it all up all over again.”

“Again?” Jon can’t seem to help himself, even when he looks full of pent up words.

“Not just for you,” Martin says. “For myself as well. It’s all gone again, god, _fuck_ , that’s just perfect.”

“Please,” he says, voice strained. “I need you to explain it.”

“Nothing feels real,” Martin says, looking up at him. Jon’s jaw sets but Martin doesn’t look away. “None of my feelings. None of them are real. I’ll… I’ll feel them but I know they’re fake. I know I just want them there. And then they go away because they’re not really there. And the only thing I can feel other than nothing is anger, but that’s just gone and floated all away. And now I… I don’t know. I was mad at you. I was mad because you were trying to take care of me and I can’t accept that for some reason, but now I’m not and I… I’m sorry. I don’t know Jon. I’m sorry.”

“Okay,” Jon says after a minute, running a hand through his hair. “That’s… alright. I’m sorry I didn’t pick up on that.”

“How could you have?” Martin says, smile quirking his lips. Jon doesn’t match it.

“I’ll try not to be outward in my concern, but I’m still probably going to cook dinner and make you tea,” he says. “That’s not something I can stop myself from doing.”

“It’s okay,” Martin says, smile pulling his lips up more. It feels hollow, and he knows Jon can tell. “I don’t think I’ll get upset anymore.”

“Right,” Jon says. He looks so sad, and Martin’s overcome with a rush to reassure him, but it’s just as fake as the rest of everything. “We’ll work on that.”

“Later,” Martin tries, and Jon grants him that with a nod.

“Later.”

\---

Martin has lost this game he’s playing, but he’s still going to play like he’ll win.

The thing is, he never meant to let Peter get to him, to drag him into the Lonely with him, but he’s gotten himself sucked in so easily. He hadn’t realized it until now, just how gone he was with it.

“How does that make you feel?” Peter asks him about not coming back, about not being dead but not being _there_ either. And Martin would say “Nothing” just to get him to believe it, but he stops before saying it.

It’s true.

The thought should terrify him, but it’s thrown in with the nothing of not being there. He doesn’t feel fear or happiness or anger over the prospect of disappearing to the Lonely and its grip forever. People might not even miss him, and that’s what he’s been working for. So if everything went wrong, no one would miss him enough for it to be a problem.

“Nothing,” he says after a moment of dull surprise. “Nothing at all.”

“ _Excellent,_ ” Peter says. He’s beaming, but Martin can’t find it in himself to smile back. “I’m so proud of you, Martin.”

That means nothing to him, nothing at all. He doesn’t think he could care less about the fact that Peter’s proud of him for practically giving himself over to the Lonely. He knows he should fight it, should say something crass and feel like something’s wrong with that, but…

“I really don’t care,” he says, and it’s the truth. It doesn’t even hurt to say. It’s the truth, and Martin does not care.

“Perfect,” Peter says, and Martin knows, deep down, that if he did die during this, that if he does stop existing, that if his consciousness mixes with the mist and the sand of the Lonely, he won’t mind.

There’s no one left to mind.

\---

“Jon.”

Jon is sitting at the kitchen table, scribbling something in a notebook, head resting on his hand. He looks up when Martin sits across from him, calling his name.

“Yes?”

“I want you to Compel me,” Martin says firmly, and Jon rears back.

“Wh… What on earth for?” He doesn’t say no outright, so that’s a good start.

“I want you to ask what I’m feeling,” Martin tells him, arms coming to rest on the table.

Jon looks at him before speaking again, taking him in. It makes Martin a bit shifty, fidgeting in his seat. “Do you think it will help?”

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “But it could hardly make things worse.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Jon says, but he doesn’t say no.

“You’re not saying no.”

“I’m not,” he agrees. “I… I’m hesitant because I don’t want to hurt you, but If you want me to, if you really want me to, I will.”

“You’ll probably have to get creative with questions,” Martin tells him. “More than just ‘How do you feel.’ My brain is very locked up right now, I think.”

“I can do that,” Jon says, nodding. “Now? Or later?”

“Now,” Martin says. “We can go out for food if it all goes bad.”

Jon smiles and Martin matches it.

“How do you feel right now?”

His voice has that static pop quality that Peter’s used to have, and Martin can feel his brain loosening up a bit.

“Fine. I feel fine. Everything’s muted but that’s normal so it’s okay. You’re here, and you’re doing this for me, so that makes things nicer. I think. I’m not really sure, but I know I like having you here, and I love you, so that makes this good.”

Jon’s smile gets softer and he folds up the notebook, placing it to the side. He reaches his hands out and Martin meets him in the middle, squeezing gently.

“How have you been feeling?”

The crackle lasts for longer as Martin’s brain tries to fight it, but he puts effort into not shutting it down.

“Upset. Mad. I’ve been so angry.” He can feel the heat in his chest of frustration, and it feels so good that he clings to it. “You’ve made me mad. A lot. And you haven’t even done anything. You’ve been trying to take care of me and it’s made me so, so mad. I’m— god Jon, I didn’t want you taking care of me. I don’t want you taking care of me. That’s not how it works!”

“Why don’t you want me to take care of you?” Jon’s hands tighten on Martin’s and Martin feels a swell of anger at the question, tries to tamp it down, but he isn’t fast enough.

“It’s not right. It isn’t right. I’m meant to do it, not you. I don’t deserve it, alright? I put us here, shoved you away, tried to make you hate me, and you won’t. Why don’t you hate me? Why won’t you _hate me_? You’re not supposed to take care of me. You’ve made that abundantly clear over the past years. You hate it when I try to do it to you, but now you’ve turned it around and you won’t hate me and I’m so _mad_ , Jon, you make me so mad because it’s not right. This isn’t right. None of this is right.”

“Why?” His voice is quiet, but it clangs in Martin’s brain.

“Because I put us here! I played games with Peter and it all went fucked and now we’re here technically on the run from the police and those Hunters and Not-Sasha, which is also my fault, and god even Daisy could be after us and it’d still be my fault. It’s all my fault that we’re here, Jon, and you can’t be honest with me about it for two seconds.”

“Why won’t you accept my help?”

“I just told you,” he says, frustration bubbling up. “ _I’m_ the one—”

“ _Why won’t you accept my help_?”

“Because I don’t deserve it,” Martin says quickly, hands gripping Jon’s probably too tight, but he doesn’t show it.

“Why do you think you don’t deserve it, Martin?”

“Because I don’t. I’m not good, Jon, and maybe you’re not either, but it’s different. I don’t need help. I can take care of myself, but I have to take care of others. That’s what I was trying to do.” There’s something rising up in his chest, a very old panic, from before he got into the Lonely, and he tries to shut it down but it won’t go. “I tried and it didn’t work, and that’s what I’m good for. I’m good for taking care of people and if I can’t do that then I’m not worth anything. People died, people got hurt because I can’t do it, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t help them, and you hate it when I help you, but god Jon please just let me help you.”

His throat feels choked, but he can’t seem to convince himself it isn’t a real emotion. Jon looks very upset, not like he normally does when taking a statement, and he supposed hearing the person you love tear themselves to shreds because of your questions isn’t the most pleasant experience.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, and Jon’s mouth twists into a very sad frown.

“Why are you sorry?” he asks, and it doesn’t seem like he’s going to ask a question without Asking.

“I don’t know,” Martin says small-ly. His voice shakes and so do his hands, but Jon holds them tightly in his. “I don’t know, I feel like I have to. It feels wrong. I’m sorry. You’re upset and I’m just spilling my— I’m sorry. Oh god I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” he asks again, and Martin feels like vomiting.

“I have to be,” he says, and his throat is so thick. “I’m taking care of you. I can’t make you upset or I’m just making things worse. You’ll be mad, maybe. Or disappointed. You have to be okay. I-I can’t make you worse. You can’t get worse because of me, and if you’re upset then you’re worse. I failed, and it’s my fault, and I’m sorry.”

“Why do you think you have to take care of me?”

“You’re the only one left,” Martin says harshly. His throat convulses and he gasps out a sob. “I-I don’t want this I d— it’s my job. Everyone else is gone or dead or practically dead and you’re the last person left that I care about. Tim, Sasha, Daisy and Basira, my mum—”

He bites his tongue to keep from speaking, but it hardly helps. It just hurts.

“Who,” Jon starts, then stops to think. “Why do you think you’re not worth anything?”

“I don’t want it, Jon,” is the first thing out of his mouth, and Jon looks seconds away from crying. Martin’s sobbing but he can’t cover his face, can’t cover his mouth, has to speak out the things he knows to be true. “It _hurts_ , why does it hurt?”

“I don’t know,” Jon whispers out, voice hoarse.

“Everything,” he says, body forcing out and answer to the question. “Everything makes me feel like that. You used to, my mum did. My dad, but he’s been gone for years so it’s hardly his fault. You would say these things sometimes, these rude little comments, and I thought maybe if I tried to make you feel better, if I could take away some of your stress, it would make me worth something. And my mum she— Jon make it stop.”

Jon stays silent, and his eyes are glossy. He just squeezes Martin’s hand in comfort and Martin gags over his own hyperventilating breaths.

“Sh-she hated me. I loved her and I took care of her and I-I tried so hard to keep her okay and she hated me. I couldn’t even control it. It wasn’t my fault. Bad d-draw of the genetic pool. Every day I would try to keep her healthy and feeling okay and every day she’d look at me and _despise_ me. For my face. For how much I looked like my dad, and how pathetic I made her feel, and how she didn’t want to see me but had no way of getting me to leave but I stayed. I stayed and she’s dead! She’s dead and she died hating me and I loved her!”

His body swims and his brain stays put and he wobbles to his feet, letting Jon’s clammy hands go. He totters to the trashcan in the kitchen and promptly vomits into it before sinking to the floor. Jon’s there then, hands hovering, unsure, before he wraps his arms around his shoulders, pulling him to rest on him.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says.

“I asked you to,” Martin says miserably, clutching him close and burying his face in his sweater.

“I should have stopped,” Jon says. “You also asked me to stop.”

“I can’t tell if it’s better or worse,” Martin gasps out, ignoring Jon’s comment. They can deal with that later. “I can’t tell if it’s better to feel it or not.”

“It’s worse now but it will be better,” Jon says confidently, and Martin just weeps against him in response. He feels week, terrible, so intensely apologetic, but he can feel something other than numbness and anger, so it’s something. This raw hurt isn’t good, but it’s something.

“I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely.

“You don’t have to be,” Jon says, voice thick. “I’m glad you told me and I’m sorry I pushed too far.”

“’s more than I ever let myself feel,” Martin tells him. “You kicked my brain’s emotional ass.”

Jon gives a weak laugh and Martin has a watery smile on his face. Jon wraps his arms all the way around him, running a hand through his hair, and Martin melts into him, letting himself be held and trying to let himself enjoy it for the first time in a long time. Jon’s out of practice, but he does his best, rocking them in place while Martin cries himself out.

They stay like that until he’s done, and it’s been a long time since Martin’s cried too. Properly cried. Since the Unknowing, he thinks, when Elias…

“I’m sorry and thank you and you did push too much,” Martin says, and he knows the face Jon’s making. “Focus on those first two.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Jon says. “I… I think it worked?”

“Oh it definitely worked,” Martin says. “I didn’t think it would work that good.”

“Compulsion,” Jon says simply, and Martin smiles. His face feels disgusting, but his mind is working for the first time in weeks. He can feel almost everything. It’s overwhelming so his brain filters it out, but he’s happy and sad and terrified and livid all at once. He lets out a laugh and pulls back to look at him.

“Thank you,” he says. “For doing that for me.”

“Thank you for letting me,” Jon says, holding his arms tight to keep him close. As if Martin was going anywhere.

“I didn’t realize how bad it’d gotten, and I really don’t know how much was the Lonely and how much was my brain.”

“They feed off each other, I think,” Jon says, and he looks less ready to break down. That’s good. “Depression and physical depression.”

“Yes,” Martin says quietly. “I think you’re right.”

“Are you… that’s a stupid question, of course you’re not feeling alright—”

“Actually,” Martin interrupts quietly and Jon snaps his mouth shut. “I think I’m feeling better than I have in months.”

It’s not a lie. His brain feels lighter, less heavy, and while his eyes sting form crying and his throat feels raw from throwing up, there’s a weight off his body that he couldn’t seem to shake before. Things are going in and out of his brain freely instead of being stuck behind the veil, and somethings are sticking but they’re things that should be sticking.

“Oh,” Jon says. “Well, I’m glad.”

“Me too,” Martin says. “It sucked at the end, was entirely overwhelming, but it worked.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, and Martin cups his face in his hands.

“Just don’t do it again, and we’ll be fine.” Jon nods and Martin gives him a soft smile, leaning in to kiss him gently. “Thank you.”

“Of course. Any time. Thank you, really, for being so open with me. For letting me listen.”

“Any time,” Martin ribs back, and Jon wrinkles his nose.”

“Ha ha, very funny.”

“I’m hilarious,” Martin says with a happiness he feels in his bones. Jon seems to sense it.

“You are,” he says, smile curling at the edges of his lips. Martin kisses him again.

“I want to be on something that is not the hardwood, but first I want to brush my teeth.”

Jon accompanies him to the bathroom. His body’s still shaking, eyes still leaking little bits of water, but he gets his teeth brushed and Jon leads him up to the bed. The covers are inviting, soft and warm. He allows Jon to tuck him in before he climbs onto his side.

“Comfortable?”

“Yes, thank you,” he says. He’s letting this happen. If he needs to Jon will back off and give him some space. He knows this. He knows this. “Could I… Water?”

Jon kisses his forehead and goes off to fetch it, leaving Martin a moment to breath. He’s bared his soul, but he feels surprisingly okay about it. The complete despair he felt for a minute there was so overpowering that he couldn’t feel how good it felt for someone to know that who he wanted to know, for someone he trusts to ask and genuinely want the answer, no matter how bad it was.

He comes back with the water and Martin drains half of it, setting the much lighter glass on the bedside table. He’s hit with a wave of exhaustion but it doesn’t carry everything away with it so he doesn’t mind.

“Would you stay here until I fall asleep?” Martin asks. “I don’t think I’ll be out for long, but I’m very, very tired.”

“Yes,” Jon says, curling his arms around Martin. His hand goes back to play with his hair, other hand rubbing circles on his back. “I can absolutely stay until you fall asleep.”

Martin mumbles out an affirmative and closes his eyes, letting Jon pull him in, keep him warm, hold him very lovingly, and take care of him. It’s nice, under all the guilt that he tries to scoot to the side. Not push down, nothing gets pushed down. He wants it all, even the bad. Sleep is not elusive, and within a few minutes he’s out like a light, body warm and pleasantly relaxed.

When he wakes up, Jon is in the exact same spot.

**Author's Note:**

> haha whoops! i had no idea how long this would get, and while not the longest thing ive written its longer than i expected  
> ive been in a capital S Slump recently and this idea came to mind to write about, and it took a very long time but its here  
> please comment if you liked


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